Dawn light spilled through Lord Pilaxis’s chamber windows, illuminating the corpse on the floor.
Eriken Jaeger watched Knight-Commander Lambert examine the body, memorizing every detail. This was his chance. A demonstration of knowledge and skill could lead to his early promotion as an official sword of the Paladin Order of the Magisterium.
“Throat cleanly slit,” Lambert declared. “This was an assassination. Did Lord Pilaxis have enemies?”
“Other than the local elves, none I’m aware of,” Lord Brandon Pilaxis stood rigid, voice steady despite his father’s corpse at his feet. “But the elves couldn’t have done this. A servant brought firewood half an hour after my father sentenced them to death. They couldn’t have orchestrated a murder so quickly.”
Eriken studied the body. Lord Henry lay on his back, throat gaping, thick beard matted with dried blood. Lambert had closed the dead man’s eyes, a kindness to the son. The body had been lowered gently, not dropped. No thud to alert guards. Judging by how the body fell, the killer must have stayed crouched behind him. Standing would’ve cast a shadow in the hearth’s light. So, the cutthroat had hidden under the lord’s bed, but to ambush him, Lord Pilaxis needed to be focused elsewhere.
“This was done by two,” Eriken mused aloud, then caught himself. He lowered his head. “Forgive me.”
“No, please, speak,” Brandon urged, almost pleading. “If you know anything about what happened to my father, share it.”
Eriken glanced at Lambert, who nodded encouragement. Clearing his throat, he pointed to the corpse. “Your father fell backward, facing away from the hearth. Ambushed from behind, yet didn’t notice any shadow.” He gestured to the corner. “One assassin distracted him. The other hid, probably under the bed, and slit his throat. I’m uncertain how they entered, but the window is the only probable route in. They either climbed in or sneaked into the castle itself.”
Lambert smiled. “Impressive.”
“There’s something in his hand,” Eriken noted, his curiosity piqued. “His left hand is clenched, and his finger is missing.”
Lambert carefully opened the four-fingered fist. A crumpled parchment fell out. He unfolded it and held it up.
A faceless black mask stared back at them.
“The Knightmares killed your father,” Lambert said.
Eriken straightened. “Impossible! The Paladins killed them all.”
“Clearly not all of them.” Brandon’s eyes fell on his father’s body. “I care not who held the blade. I care who gave the order to use it.”
“We’ll question your father’s subjects,” Lambert informed him. “We’ll gather all the information we can to identify your father’s killer. I’ll also have men seek out a Knightmare. They’re like any sellsword now, loyal only to coin. With enough gold, they’ll reveal who hired them.”
Sellswords, repulsive men without honor, Eriken thought, disgust flooding him. From murderers to sellswords. They learned nothing.
“You have my gratitude,” Brandon said, bowing.
“Eriken, come with me,” Lambert commanded almost too suddenly as he strode out the room.
Eriken followed, keeping a respectful distance as they descended the stone steps. Sir Lambert was Knight-Commander, one of the highest ranks in the Paladins. To reach that position required more than skill with a blade. It required honor, tactical brilliance, unwavering faith.
Outside, the courtyard buzzed with urgent chatter. Peasants and workers discussed the lord’s death in hushed, fearful tones. Lambert’s deep voice cut through the noise as they emerged from the stairwell.
“Eriken, you’re Lord Edward Jaeger’s firstborn son, are you not?”
“Yes, m’lord,” he answered, perhaps too quickly.
Lambert, restraining a chuckle, stopped at the bottom of the stairway. “Calm yourself, Eriken.” He gestured with his head. “Come.”
They strode into the yard, the chatter noticeably softening upon Sir Lambert’s arrival, lowering to whispers. Eyes followed them. The gossip had already begun.
“You’ve been with the Paladins for several months now,” Lambert said as they walked. “I’ve seen your skill with a blade. The product of House Jaeger’s Master at Arms, I presume?”
“Sir Arthur. He taught me all I know.”
“I’ve observed you spar with other Paladins,” Lambert noted, his tone rich with approval. “You’ve trained well, Eriken. A young man with your talents is wasted as a squire. The Paladins need you. Our Grand Meister Rylos agrees. He may be old with frail health, but his eyes can see talent.”
Startled, Eriken stopped and faced his commander. “I’m at your service, Knight-Commander.” The words came automatically, expected, practiced. But his heart raced with hope.
“Come with me to the church.”
Eriken followed as ordered, the sun slowly rising higher as they entered the local church. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colored light across the altar. The Father smiled at Eriken as they approached, then stepped aside.
Eriken inhaled deeply, a familiar calm settling in his chest. His hand moved to the four-pointed star hanging from his necklace, a warmth spreading from it. This place was an anchor, the cold stone and colored light a physical manifestation of an unshakable truth.
At the altar stood a golden statue of Litiah, the Light’s wife, gazing serenely down upon him. Litiah, revered for her miracles—healing sick children, walking on water, even defeating death itself—was immortalized in the stained glass behind her. The windows chronicled her story: Her mysterious appearance where she healed a dying child in a barn, gathering followers, her freeing of elven slaves, the betrayal that exposed her followers’ hideouts, her execution in exchange for the lives of her people, and ultimately, her return to the heavens to wed the Light.
Eriken knew every detail. The stories had been bedtime tales, morning prayers, dinner conversations. Her statue depicted a beautiful, shapely woman with long, flowing hair, arms extended as if ready to embrace a child.
“Eriken, kneel,” Lambert commanded, his tone firm yet respectful. “You stand in a house of the one true god. Show your respect.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Eriken knelt. The words rose from his memory, prayers spoken every night before sleep since childhood. But now, dawn breaking, light spilling through the windows, this was different. Real.
Slowly, with reverence, he began:
“Light, hear my prayer, for it is my oath to you. Dawn has come, and the Light has chosen me. I shall commit no sin and live by my faith. My shield shall protect the faithful. My sword shall slay the faithless. My duty shall end upon my death. My faith shall be my strength. I am the knight of the Light. I am the enemy of heresy. I swear my life and soul to the Paladins. On this day until my last.”
“You knelt as a mere squire,” Lambert intoned. “Now, rise as a Paladin.”
The sun shone brightly into the church, silhouetting Litiah’s statue. At last, Eriken was a Paladin, a sword of the most honorable order in Tymeria, a protector of the Litian faith. Their pledge ensured true justice was delivered to the wicked and cruel while upholding the law and guarding the innocent. The Light’s legion of righteousness.
Lambert gripped his arm and pulled him to his feet, smiling. “Welcome to the Paladins.”
Eriken’s dream had come true. “I swear I won’t fail the Order.”
“I know you won’t.” Lambert’s confidence was absolute. “You’ve more than proven your skills. Many doubted when your father proposed your name as a recruit, but recent events have silenced them. It’s an honor to have you among us. With hard work, I may even grant you knighthood. You’ll be Sir Eriken Jaeger.”
The thought made Eriken’s chest swell. He couldn’t stop smiling. “As the firstborn son of House Jaeger, I’ll bring honor to the Paladins and to my family name.”
“Alright, Eriken, that’s enough,” Lambert chuckled, “before you run out of breath. Let’s get you armored up.”
Eriken followed Sir Lambert out of the church and toward the blacksmith’s open forge. A faceless mannequin stood erect in Paladin armor: snow-white gambeson, a cloak, and a chest plate emblazoned with the yellow star of the Light. Beside it stood a white shield bearing the same symbol, a hallmark of a holy knight of Tymeria.
“I hope the measurements were correct,” Lambert joked.
Moments later, Eriken stood fully equipped. The plate armor was heavier than his old ringmail, but it offered far better protection. It felt right. Like responsibility given physical weight. His heart raced faster than the first time he’d held a sword, faster than the first time he’d bedded a woman. He felt like a boy again. Joyful. Pure.
His hand moved to the sword’s hilt. “May I?”
Lambert stepped back cautiously. “It’s your sword now. Just don’t cut me. My wife loves my face.”
Eriken unsheathed the blade. Longsword. Fresh-forged. Double-edged with a leather grip and silver pommel. He swung it experimentally up and down, testing the balance. Perfect.
A soot-covered blacksmith bowed from the forge, his grinning face weathered by years of heat and labor. “You may call me Gregor, m’lord. The measurements were exact.”
“This blade is beautiful,” Eriken said, admiring the polished surface. His reflection stared back, eighteen years old, short blonde hair, pale skin, bright blue eyes. A Paladin now. A warrior of the Light.
A hand gripped Eriken’s shoulder. Lambert shook him gently. “How about giving that new sword a test?”
“Sir?”
Lambert released him, turning to a nearby guard. “Call my Paladins to the forest’s edge. Tell them to prepare for battle.”
“Yes, m’lord!” The guard bowed and hurried off.
Eriken’s heart skipped. “Sir, you’re going to attack the elves? Despite the local rumors Lord Pilaxis believed, our reports confirmed this clan doesn’t affiliate with the Zela’ken.”
“No, but we cannot risk a repeat of what happened to the men. For all we know, they’re planning to join the Zela’ken,” Lambert said as he tightened his grip on Eriken’s shoulder. “Eriken, we’re gardeners. We cannot grow a beautiful garden with weeds in our field. We must remove them by the root.”
Eriken’s throat tightened. “These elves are innocent—”
“These are elves, not humans.” Lambert’s voice hardened. “When the Inquisition ended, our Order was created to protect the faithful from monsters and heathens. The elves made the first move. Now we do our duty. Remember what you are. Remember your oath.”
“Elves, not humans,” Eriken echoed. His knees buckled slightly. “I understand. I just don’t want more violence.”
“What we want is irrelevant,” Lambert reminded. “The Light wills it. You’ve made your vows. Sworn your oath. Now keep that oath, Eriken. You are a knight of the Light.”
Eriken glanced at the sword in his hand. His fingers tightened around the grip. “Yes.” The word came out hollow. He forced steel into his voice. “I’m a knight of the Light. I am the enemy of heresy. I swear my life and soul to the Paladins. On this day until my last.”
Lambert released his shoulder. “Strength through faith, Eriken. Remember that.”
“I will,” Eriken swore.
Suddenly, a guard called for the peasants to make way, and the sound of galloping hooves alerted Eriken and Lambert to the arriving rider. Eriken recognized her instantly: Dyna, the disowned daughter of House Schnee. Her androgynous appearance was striking. She could easily be mistaken for a man from the neck up with her strong jaw, thick brows, hair cut short and styled like a man’s. Her green-grey eyes were wide and intense. She swung down from her saddle.
Eriken recognized the horse too. Sprinter. White coat with a distinctive spot above the left nostril. One of the Paladin Order’s fastest mounts. If they were using Sprinter, the news was urgent.
“Knight-Commander Lambert,” Dyna announced, holding out a tightly rolled paper. “Word from Knight-Captain Bandon.”
Snatching the parchment and breaking the seal with his thumb, Lambert examined the message, his eyes growing wide. “Impossible.”
“Sir?” Eriken inquired.
“Change of plans,” Lambert said abruptly. “Eriken, you’ll not be joining us. Instead, I’m sending you to assist Captain Bandon.”
Eriken’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“Two Paladins are dead and the suspect...this is far more urgent than elves,” Lambert said, his tone serious. “Go with Dyna, now!”